


The Clementine

by femalegothic



Series: something tender, anyway [3]
Category: Good Girls (TV)
Genre: Coitus Interruptus, Extramarital Affairs, F/M, Is it really an affair if Dean deserves to get cheated on?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:00:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25832440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femalegothic/pseuds/femalegothic
Summary: Beth takes the last clementine out of its orange mesh bag and gives it to him, dropping it into his outstretched palm. She almost laughs at how ridiculously small it looks in his enormous hand.[Rio] leans forward again, resting his elbows on his knees and turns the clementine around as if searching for the perfect place to begin. His face is almost comically serious, his brow furrowed and his full lips pursed, as he studies it carefully. But when he glances up at her, as if to make sure she’s still looking, she can see the playful glint in his brown eyes.He’s hamming it up for her.So she plays along—happy to share a silly moment with him. Sitting up straight with her shoulders back, she stares down at him expectantly, as if peeling this little clementine is of the utmost importance. But as they look at each other, their faces both deadly serious, she can feel the laughter bubbling in her throat. She presses her lips firmly together, fighting off the smile tugging at their corners.---Beth and Rio share a clementine. Post S3.
Relationships: Beth Boland/Rio
Series: something tender, anyway [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1874368
Comments: 28
Kudos: 377





	The Clementine

**Author's Note:**

> CW: mentions of sexual choking

The championship tournament for the Rosedale Soccer League’s U8 division started on an unusually scorching Saturday morning in late June. The air hangs heavy with humidity, undisturbed by even a whisper of breeze. The few wispy clouds floating lazily across the bright blue sky offer little hope for shade.

As the sun beat down on her head, Beth wished she hadn’t forgotten her hat. She’d left it sitting on the kitchen counter in her mad dash out the door that morning.

She’d woken up late, having snoozed her first and second alarm. Only when she’d gone to snooze the third was she conscious enough to see the time.

_9:15 a.m._

Fuck, she’d thought, 15 minutes, at the most, before Dean had to leave to get Jane to soccer on time. She’d never overslept on a game day before. Even though she couldn’t go, she was always up helping Jane get ready and getting Dean out the door on time.

Her head swam when she sat up. Maybe she’d overdone it with the bourbon the night before.

She’d been relieved to see that Dean wasn’t sleeping beside her in the new bed. Her first thought was that he was already up—she’d imagined him fumbling to tie back Jane’s hair as she struggled to pull her too long socks over her shin guards. She’d smiled to herself, remembering the previous Saturday, when Jane came sprinting into the kitchen wearing only her shorts and a single sock, insisting that she be allowed to “play skins like the boys in the movies.” 

But remembering how long it had taken to talk Jane into her jersey, she’d jumped out of bed, tripping over her shoes as she rushed to make sure everything was running smoothly. Jane was notoriously difficult in the mornings even when she willingly put on clothes and Dean was, well, Dean. It’s not necessarily that she didn’t trust him to get Jane to soccer. She just didn’t trust him to get her there on time.

That morning, perhaps rather naively, she’d truly believed he was already getting Jane ready. But when she’d stepped into the living room, she’d found him passed out, open-mouthed and snoring loudly, on their brand new couch.

Oh right, she’d thought, remembering vaguely that he’d been out the night before, supposedly celebrating Boland Bubbles’ hundredth spa sale. He hadn't even bothered to tell her he was going out; rather he left Kenny in charge because he was “practically an adult now” as Kenny had so proudly explained to her when she returned late from printing at the Paper Porcupine.

Beth had been furious. She’d waited up—pouring herself several generous bourbons—and confronted him when he stumbled in at four a.m., demanding an explanation. He’d simply shrugged and grinned stupidly at her before slumping over the back of the couch. She’d left him there and gone to bed drunk and fuming. 

As she stood there that morning, looking down at her husband drooling on her new couch, her anger returned, burning hot in her chest. She’d considered waking him up and forcing him to deal with Jane. The vindictive part of her imagined dumping a glass of ice water on his face. She’d imagined him jerking awake—wet, confused, and sputtering. She’d imagined it would be deeply satisfying to see him like that.

But it wasn’t worth the inevitable fight. She’d rather face soccer herself than hear even one word from Dean.

Jane had been mostly cooperative, having (thankfully) already woken herself up and put on her fluorescent orange uniform, though she’d accessorized with a yellow cape and pink top hat. But she’d outright refused to brush her teeth because she was out of her Moana toothpaste. It had taken 10 minutes and the promise of five whole dollars to convince her that using Emma’s “big girl” toothpaste would work for just one morning.

After getting Jane ready and setting her up with some cereal, Beth had rushed back to her own room. She’d grabbed a random pair of jean shorts from her dresser and a clean-ish white shirt from the discarded clothes pile on her chair. She’d scrambled to dress and make herself presentable, brushing her teeth and her hair while simultaneously swiping tinted sunscreen on her face and mascara on her lashes.

Dean was still drooling on the couch when they’d left twenty-three minutes after she woke up, later than she’d hoped, but at least all of Jane’s soccer gear made it out the door on the first try.

Beth had remembered her hat, still sitting where she’d put it down on the counter while she grabbed bottled water from the fridge, right as they were turning out of their neighborhood. She’d cursed aloud, earning her a sing-songy “ooo mommy said a bad word,” from Jane, but had no time to go back. They were already late, and they still had to stop by the Fine N’ Frugal to pick up a couple of bags of Lil’ Cuties for the kids to eat between games.

They’d made it before the first game started. Just barely.

Pam Johnson, Beth’s replacement as team mom, rolled her eyes when she’d seen the orange mesh bags, haughtily remarking that she’d asked Dean to bring orange slices, but she “supposed clementines would do.”

God, Beth hated her.

She was younger, barely twenty-eight, with one “perfect” son. It made sense, really, for her to take over as team mom. She had more energy and fewer distractions. Pam had explained this all to Beth when she’d taken over, her tone light, but her veneered teeth bared. 

Pam asked after Dean, hoping he felt better when Beth told her he was sick. Beth could barely stop herself from rolling her eyes when Pam told her how lucky she was that he was “such a devoted father,” her tone suggesting she thought Beth was lucky to be married to him. Beth gave her a tight smile then found an empty bench as far from Pam as possible.

Normally, Beth sent Dean to the games with orange slices. They were easier for the kids to eat and easier to clean up. But she didn’t have time to peel that many oranges last night, not when she also had to print several thousand in fake cash. Not that she could tell Pam that. 

So the Cuties would have to do for today.

Sighing, Beth checks her watch.

_10:35 am._

According to the schedule, each U8 team would play three 40-minute games at 10 am, 11:30 am, and 1 pm. She had about five minutes before twelve screaming seven-year-olds descended upon her in search of post-game snacks.

She turns her attention back to the game. Neither team had scored yet, though that wasn’t surprising given that only about half of the players seemed to know that they were even supposed to try to score. At the moment, Jane was in the middle of a clump of players in the midfield, kicking at what Beth hoped was the ball and not another player, though she couldn’t be sure. Jane recently discovered that kicking the other player was the quickest way to get the ball and Beth had not been particularly successful in persuading her not to use her “super special secret move” anymore.

Suddenly, Jane shoots out from the clump, dribbling the ball clumsily in front of her. Judging from the fact that a boy was now hopping on one leg while clutching the other, Jane almost certainly used her “super special secret move.” But the ref must not have seen because he doesn’t blow his whistle.

Beth sighs. She really needs to get Jane to stop doing that. But a part of her is happy to see Jane’s special moves in person for once rather than having to hear a second-hand description from Dean. She smiles to herself, watching Jane run directly toward the goal with the orange and green clump of players trailing behind her.

Excitement swirls in Beth’s stomach as she watches her daughter. She knew instantly Jane would score. There had only been one defender in her way, a small girl who simply stepped aside as Jane ran past, while the goalie was sitting inside the goal playing with dirt. A woman, who Beth assumes is his mom, pleads for him to get up from the sidelines.

But he doesn’t.

Jane’s shoots, gracelessly sending the ball rolling past him and into the goal. A sharp blast from the whistle confirms her score. Beth jumps up, barely registering the second game-ending whistle, as she yells out for Jane.

Jane whips around, smiling proudly at Beth, before being tackled by a dark-haired boy in a matching fluorescent orange uniform. Beth laughs at the pair struggling to remain upright as they cling together, spinning around and hollering in delight. As they celebrate, Beth catches sight of the little boy's face, instantly recognizing his wide, gap-toothed grin.

Her stomach drops.

Marcus.

She’d forgotten about Marcus.

She’d been so angry at Dean being too drunk to take Jane to soccer that she’d completely forgotten _why_ Dean took Jane to soccer now. Why Beth had given up her position as team mom. Why Beth hadn’t been to a single game this season.

Marcus. Or rather Rhea.

Beth stiffens, her eyes wildly scanning the field for any sign of her. Her heart beats rapidly as she searches the clumps of parents scattered around the sidelines. 

She’s almost surprised by how apprehensive she is to run into Rhea. Months had passed since she’d last seen her. Things were different now—good even—between her and Rio and that had to count for something. Still, she doesn’t want to see her. Losing Rhea’s friendship cut unexpectedly deep and Beth preferred not to rub salt in her own wounds even if she deserved it.

But there’s no sign of her anywhere.

Before she has a chance to process Rhea’s apparent absence, Jane slams into her, grabbing her around the middle, and nearly knocking her back onto the bench, yelling, “Mommy! Mommy! Did you see me!?”

Beth brings her hand down to Jane’s head and gives her sweaty hair a ruffle. “Yes, baby! I saw.” Jane grins up at her. 

“You were amazing out there.” Jane hugs her tighter, rubbing her little face into Beth’s stomach.

Jane lifts her head, still beaming, “Can I have two cuties, mommy?”

“Of course,” she says, tapping her daughter lightly on the nose.

The fluorescent orange mob of seven-year-olds has surrounded them now, their little grabby hands outstretched expectantly. They are yelling and laughing, excitedly rehashing their win. Beth smiles at them, playfully chastising them to be patient while she detaches Jane from around her middle so she can grab the bags of Cuties. Ripping the mesh of the first bag, she distributes the clementines. The children squeal happily, running off to play as soon as they get their hands on their snack.

She doesn’t look directly at Marcus when she hands him one, a twinge of guilt flickering in her stomach. Still, she sees his cheerful grin out of the corner of her eye as he politely thanks her. Beth gives Jane her clementines last, making sure that all the other kids get at least one before she gives Jane two. There’s three left when she gets to Jane and she holds the bag out so her daughter can grab the ones she wants. Jane pretends to study them for a second, playfully scrunching up her face before grabbing one in each hand and running off with Marcus to join the other kids playing on the field.

Beth yells after them as she settles back down on the bench, attempting to remind Jane to throw her peels in the trash, not on the field. Her daughter doesn’t even look back. She sighs, knowing Jane isn’t listening. 

She shifts a bit, attempting to pull her shorts down to stop the hot metal from stinging her thighs. Her eyes scan the parents again, the knot in her stomach twisting as she carefully checks each face. Still, there’s no sign of Rhea. She looks down her watch, just to give herself something else to look at.

“Yo.” Beth’s head snaps to her right.

Sitting casually on the other side of her bench is Rio. Her mouth falls open in surprise. She hadn’t seen him among the parents during the game and didn’t even notice someone sit down next to her.

But he was there, looking impossibly good in black jeans and a black t-shirt, a black baseball hat shading his face. He looks perfectly comfortable in his all-black outfit, despite the sweltering heat, though she can see the faint sheen of sweat glistening on his tan skin. He’s leaning forward, his elbows braced on his knees as he rests his chin on one hand. The lines around his eyes crinkling as he smiles at her.

For a long moment, Beth just stares at him, mouth still open. She knew he’d never been to a game, and she’d only had to listen to Dean bitch about seeing him at practice once. But here he is, casually sitting on the bench as if he’s here every weekend.

“What are you doing here?” 

“Came to see my kid play,” he says, his tone mildly condescending, “You know it’s the end of season tournament, yeah?”

“Of course I know. I’m–” She hesitates, “I’m just surprised to see you here.”

“Why?” He tilts his head slightly, biting his lip and looking up at her with faux curiosity as if he couldn’t possibly imagine why she might be surprised to see him.

“You’ve never come to a game before,” she points out, gesturing vaguely toward the field. His eyes follow her hand as he settles back on the bench, throwing an arm behind her. He’s sitting far enough from her that, from the outside, it probably looks like he’s just casually resting his arm on the back of the bench. And that’s exactly what she thinks he’s doing at first, before his fingers ghost over the back of her neck.

“How would you know?” He asks, still watching the children playing on the field in front of them. 

“I–” She jerks a bit when he strokes her neck again, his fingers pressing more firmly against her sweat-damp skin. He turns his attention back toward her, his expression annoyingly smug. “Your dumbass husband been talkin’ about me, huh?” 

“What? No–I just–” She quickly denies, flushed and embarrassed he’d known exactly how she knew. She fumbles for something to say, struggling, for once, to come up with a believable lie. “I’ve never seen you at a game.”

“That right?” He laughs, shaking his head, “You don’t come either, mama.”

“How would you–” she pauses, realizing, in teasing her, he’d given himself away, “You've been talking about me then?”

He shrugs, his gaze lingering on her face for a moment before turning back toward the field, his hand still resting on her neck.

She’s surprised. She’d never considered that he might talk to Rhea or Marcus about her. She wonders if he’d asked or if they’d mentioned her absence unprompted. She couldn’t imagine it—him even thinking about her when she wasn’t around—let alone talking about her. It never crossed her mind before, despite all the ways he permeated her own family life, that she might have done the same to his.

They sit there, in companionable silence, watching their children run and scream and play. Jane’s throwing, or rather attempting to throw, slices of clementine into Marcus’ open mouth. Most of the pieces miss him entirely, though one smacks him squarely in the forehead. They’re positively shrieking with delight, despite having lost most of the clementine to the dirt. Her heart clenches, watching them, innocently enjoying their time together, blissfully unaware of the tension between their parents.

She thinks back to when things had been simpler—if just as confusing—between them. Before he’d tried to set her up, before they’d tried in earnest to kill each other, before all the lying and manipulation and the anger and the hurt. There were moments before, like this one, when they’d simply enjoyed each other's company.

If she could go back to that moment in her room before she’d ended things, when he’d been looking at her like that, she would. Maybe things could have worked out between them if she’d just tried to make it work. She probably could have waited Dean out—he would have brought the children back eventually, unable to handle them without her. She could have lied to him, told him she was done—with crime, with Rio—just like he wanted. But it was easier to give in, just do whatever he wanted as she’d always done, and return to the certainty of her life before Rio.

She had been too uncertain then. Of herself, of him, of what they meant to each other.

At least now she could admit it to herself, and maybe even to him—if he’d ever ask—how she felt about him.

She’d always thought what she’d wanted was to be wanted. By her husband, by Rio, by anyone at all. But now she knew that what she’d wanted was to be seen. To bear the ugly truth of herself and be wanted in spite of it. She couldn’t hide herself from him, not really. He’d seen all the terrible truth of her—experienced firsthand what she was capable of—and wanted her anyway.

He’d told her as much himself all those months ago, after the first time they’d slept together since she’d shot him. As they lay together, panting on the floor of her then empty bedroom, he’d propped himself up on his forearm to look down at her. As he told her quite plainly just how much he hated her, he’d squeezed her neck, lightly at first, his grip tightening as he explained just how badly he wanted her dead. And she’d let him do it, not once moving to stop him, even when his grip became uncomfortably tight. She’d watched him as he did it, holding his unwavering gaze. He’d let go just right as her vision blurred, moving his hand from her throat to her cheek to lightly brush her hair back like he’d done so many times before. He’d looked into her eyes and told her, in a hoarse whisper, that in spite of everything, he still wanted her.

So that was that.

She knew now that they hated and wanted each other in equal measure.

And so here they are—their long history of violence, betrayal, and desire stretching between them—as they sit on a park bench watching their children throw clementine slices at each other. 

“Thoughtchu brought orange slices to soccer games,” Rio says suddenly, snapping her from her thoughts.

“What?” Beth turns to face him, confused.

“That’s whatchu said before.” Still, she looks at him blankly.

“In your little basic bitch speech,” he clarifies, grinning. She rolls her eyes. Oh. He’d never let her live that down. Sometimes it seems like he remembers every word she’s ever said. Like he’d written everything down just to tease her with later. He’d recently taken to condescendingly asking her if she’d “googled that” whenever she made any suggestions.

“Lemme have one, yeah?” He reaches out, gesturing expectantly toward the Cuties bag sitting beside her.

Beth takes the last clementine out of its orange mesh bag and gives it to him, dropping it into his outstretched palm. She almost laughs at how ridiculously small it looks in his enormous hand.

He leans forward again, resting his elbows on his knees and turns the clementine around as if searching for the perfect place to begin. His face is almost comically serious, his brow furrowed and his full lips pursed, as he studies it carefully. But when he glances up at her, as if to make sure she’s still looking, she can see the playful glint in his brown eyes.

He’s hamming it up for her.

So she plays along—happy to share a silly moment with him. Sitting up straight with her shoulders back, she stares down at him expectantly, as if peeling this little clementine is of the utmost importance. But as they look at each other, their faces both deadly serious, she can feel the laughter bubbling in her throat. She presses her lips firmly together, fighting off the smile tugging at their corners.

Beth waves a hand loftily, bidding him to continue with his task. 

Rio turns his gaze back to the clementine, turning it over a few more times before settling his thumb over the slight indent at its core. He circles the indent for a moment, then presses down, just hard enough to break through the surface, his finger sliding carefully beneath the rind.

It’s strange to see him this way, playful and unguarded. Even before she’d shot him, he’d rarely shown this side of himself to her. Watching him now, knowing that the same man delicately peeling a tiny clementine, was capable of such immense violence, threw her off balance. Of course, she’d known before, but she hadn’t really understood. But then he’d murdered Lucy and shown her exactly the kind of man he was—violent and unremorseful.

And yet, here she is, enjoying his company at her daughter’s soccer game.

It’s sick really, how easily she could put Lucy’s murder behind them. There are moments, when they’re together, that she feels guilty. For what she did to him, to Rhea, to Marcus, and most of all to Lucy—but when he’s pushing inside her—she finds she really couldn’t care less. She knows they’ll never talk about it—how wrong what they’re doing is— this twisted thing between them only sustainable if they never acknowledge anything beyond their desire for each other. 

Their hatred would tear them apart otherwise.

Slowly, Rio works his way around the clementine, peeling back the orange rind to expose the juicy segments underneath. After a long minute of diligent maneuvering, he removes the rind in a single piece. He glances up again, flashing her little, triumphant smile, before beginning to gently remove the stray strands of stringy, white pith.

Once he’s removed most of the pith, he brings the bare clementine up to eye level, examining it with the same faux seriousness as before. His eyes are narrow and just a sliver of his tongue peeks out from between his lips. 

“Well?” Beth says, unsticking her thighs from the bench as she turns her body toward him, their knees almost touching.

“You want some, yeah?” Not waiting for her answer, he splits the clementine perfectly in two and passes a half to her. Their fingers brush as she takes it from him. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” He takes a segment from his half and pops it into his mouth, closing his eyes as he chews. “Taste so good, ma.”

She chokes on her own slice, remembering how he’d said the same thing, voice low and raspy, a few nights before, as he’d looked up from between her legs.

He peels off a second segment. Her eyes follow a single orange bead of juice as it rolls down the side of his pointer finger and collects along the band of his black ring. She nearly chokes again, thinking about how that same ring felt when he pressed his fingers into her.

She uncrosses and recrosses her legs, looking away from him with burning cheeks.

After they both finish their halves, Rio starts looking around for something, turning his head back and forth before locking onto something behind her head. Beth follows him with her eyes, whipping around to see what he’s looking at—a trash can a few yards behind them. She realizes then that he’s still clutching the clementine’s rind and pith in his hand. Instinctively, her own hand shoots out to take it from him just like she would for her children. “I’ll take it.”

“I’m grown, mama. I can handle my own trash,” he says, laughing at her. She squares her shoulders and keeps her hand out, wiggling her fingers impatiently. “Just give it here.”

He laughs again but drops the rind onto her palm anyway.

She has to dig around in her soccer bag a bit—pulling out a couple of juice boxes, two different bottles of sunscreen, and a tattered roll of pink pre-wrap—before finding the repurposed Fine N’ Frugal bag she uses for trash.

“What don’t you got in that giant mama bag?” He slides closer to her on the bench to peer into her bag, firmly pressing his knee against hers and slinging his arm over the backrest.

“I like to be prepared,” she states curtly as she jams everything back into her bag. She’s surprised by how close his face is to hers when she turns back to him. 

She tilts away, suddenly remembering how very much in public they are. She glances over his shoulder to see if any of the other soccer moms have noticed them. There’s a group nearby—Heather Martin, Jennifer Herring, and of course, Pam Johnson—but it doesn’t seem like any of them have noticed just how close Marcu’s very single dad is sitting to Jane’s very married mom.

Rio squeezes her shoulder, stopping her from moving any further from him.

“Yeah, but whatchu need two sunscreens for?” He puts his hand on her knee, his long fingers brushing her inner thigh. Lately, he’d gotten in the bad habit of touching her, just slightly too familiarly, in front of other people. He’d tweak her chin before ordering Mick to take her home or grab her hand as she passed him his cut, out in the open, for Annie and Ruby to see. It was as if he didn’t care who knew what they were to each other. She, on the other hand, cared very much—desperate to keep this thing with him to herself.

“I know you’re white as hell, but seems like one would be enough, yeah?” He strokes her thigh again, making her stomach flutter.

“Well, uh–,” she begins, clearing her throat, “one is just, uh, for the face. The skin there is more delicate, so it needs spec–don’t!” She brings her hand down, grabbing his wrist when his fingers slide beneath the cuff of her shorts.

“You can’t touch me like that.” She hisses, pulling his hand away. “Not here.”

“Oh?” He easily twists from her grasp, his voice low. “Thought you liked it when I touched you there.” He places his hand right back where it was, his fingers resting over her shorts rather than under them.

She puts her hand on his wrist again but doesn’t pull him away. “The other parents will talk.”

“That so?” He’s looking at her lips and for a moment, she’s afraid (and thrilled) he might kiss her, right there, out in the open for everyone to see.

Beth glances again over his shoulder again and groans.

Heather’s looking directly at them, an unpleasant grin on her otherwise pretty face. The second Beth catches her eye, she turns to whisper to Jennifer, who whips her head around to look too. 

Great. 

Jennifer’s husband Mark watches football with Dean on Sundays. No doubt he’ll go running to Dean about the shady-looking guy putting the moves on his wife.

She couldn’t wait to hear just how much Dean “hates that guy.” Again.

 _“Why him, Bethie?”_ She wished she could give him a satisfying answer, but no matter what she said, it would never be enough for him. Dean just couldn’t understand her. Not about Rio. Not about anything.

“Whatever you say.” Rio pulls away, sliding his hand along her shoulders as he moves a respectable distance away from her. She rolls her eyes. It’s too late. The damage is already done.

God, she would never hear the end of it. She’s contemplating just how she’s going to get out of the inevitable argument with Dean when she hears a frantic shout. 

“Hey! Look out!”

The warning came too late. The soccer ball smacks right into the slide of her face, shattering the lens of her sunglasses and knocking them off. Her hand flies up to where a sharp pain erupts under her eye and she feels warm blood beneath her fingers.

“Sorry! Shit! Sorry!” Beth turns to look with her good eye, her hand still pressed firmly over the other. Two gangly teenage boys in fluorescent pink soccer jerseys are running towards her, tripping over themselves to apologize.

They stop short, skidding to a halt a couple of yards from the bench. The taller one has a sort of cowed, constipated look on his face while the shorter one looks outright terrified.

Their expressions confuse her until she notices that Rio is already striding over to the boys, his long legs allowing him to quickly close the distance. The short boy yelps in surprise when Rio grabs them by their upper arms and hauls them away, casually describing just how much trouble they’d be in if they “kept actin’ foolish.”

She doesn’t stick around to hear what else he says to them. She snatches her bag off the bench and hurries over to the park’s bathrooms.

\---

The large family bathroom is blessedly unoccupied. While it feels good to be out from under the blazing sun, the air in the cement room is still uncomfortably warm and rather stale. For a public bathroom, it’s relatively clean, with only a bit of stray toilet paper littering the floor and smelling more like lemon cleanser than anything else. The room is lit only by a dim fluorescent light over the sink and the sunlight streaming in from the small openings along the grey walls. 

In the dim light, Beth examines her face in the mirror. There’s a small cut near the corner of her eye and a surprising amount of blood smeared down her cheek. Fortunately, the cut seems to no longer be actively bleeding.

Carefully avoiding the water collected around the edge of the sink, Beth places her bag on the counter and begins searching for her small first aid kit. After a minute of rooting around its depths, she pulls out the small white container and takes stock of its contents. 

She sighs. This particular kit contains only a couple of bandages, some probably dry alcohol wipes, and a single packet of expired acetaminophen. She’d have to go out to her van and get the instant ice pack out of the larger kit if she wants to do anything to prevent the swelling and bruising sure to come.

Fuck. They’d been so late that the lot near the field was full and she’d had to find a spot on the far side of the park. She wouldn’t have time to go out there before the second game started. Maybe she could run over at halftime.

For now, she could at least take care of the cut. Leaning over the sink, she opens an alcohol wipe. Gently, she dabs the (thankfully) still damp cloth on the cut, flinching a bit from the sting. She uses the other side to wipe away the blood drying along the side of her face. Taking the smallest, round bandage, she carefully applies it to her cheek, the bright peachy coloring standing out against the purpling skin around it.

Tentatively, she presses down on her cheekbone, hissing at the dull pain. The whole side of her face hurts and she wonders if it would be worth taking the expired medicine now or just waiting until she goes out to the van.

Still focused on examining her face, she doesn’t even turn when the door opens behind her and Rio slips inside. 

For a moment he just stands there, casually leaning against the door and taking her in. As he steps toward her, into the dim fluorescent light, she notices the dripping plastic bag in his hand—he’s brought her some ice.

Beth watches his approach in the mirror, her good eye locked on his. Familiar heat pools between her legs, her body reacting as if he is about to bend her over this sink rather than hand her a makeshift ice pack for her burgeoning black eye.

She swallows, her mouth suddenly quite dry. 

Rio stops behind her and places his free hand lightly on her hip. He nudges her slightly, prompting her to turn around. He’s standing close, the brim of his hat nearly touching her forehead. He leans into her, crowding her against the counter. It’s just low enough that she can slide onto it without jumping. The vinyl is damp and slightly sticky under her thighs and she feels the tepid water around the edge of the sink seeping into her jean shorts. Any other time she’d be repulsed, but as Rio steps between her knees, she feels nothing but fluttering anticipation.

“I hope you weren’t too hard on them,” she says, letting him tilt her head back, “It was an accident.” 

He grins and brings the ice to her face. “Nah, I don’t think it was.”

Beth flinches when the cold, wet bag touches her skin, reflexively jerking her head away. He catches her chin more firmly, holding her face still as he applies the ice again. He takes a second to evaluate his placement before dropping his gaze to her chest.

“I think they were lookin’ for a reason to get closer to the stacked milf in the v-neck.” His hand leaves her chin, ghosting over the column of her throat before tracing the neckline of her shirt. “Maybe she’d bend over an’ get the ball for ‘em if it rolled over.”

She flushes as his finger dips lower, sliding between her breasts.

“Mighta worked too,” he hooks the finger under the v, “if they hadn’t missed their mark.”

She shoots him an incredulous look, her uncovered eye narrowing, as she knocks his hand away. “Don’t be ridiculous! You don’t know–”

He cuts her off, laughing. “No, mama, I do know. I pulled the same kinda idiot shit when I was their age. Didn’t beam any hot soccer moms in the face though.”

“Just because you’re a horny idiot doesn’t mean those kids were trying to look down my shirt.”

“Oh?” He tilts his head, still grinning. “Mighta also heard them talkin’ ‘bout how to get a look,” his gaze drops back to her chest, “Tryna guess what color bra you might be wearin’.” He hooks a finger under her shirt again, giving it a gentle tug to expose the pale pink trim of her bra. His grin widens. “Looks like they were wrong.”

“Well,” she huffs, annoyed. “You should have said something before,” gesturing vaguely at her face.

“Sorry, mama, didn’t know they’d be stupid enough to kick a ball at your face.”

He grabs her chin again and pulls the ice away from her eye, allowing a stream of cold water to rush down her cheek. She shivers as it drips off her chin onto her neck and chest. His dark eyes follow the stream down to her cleavage again, the now damp edge of her bra still peeking out from where he’d pulled her shirt down. She bites back a laugh of her own. If only he was so predictable all the time, her life would be a million times easier.

“Are you here to help me or to stare at my breasts?”

Rio’s eyes snap back up to hers, but he’s smirking, unashamed of being caught. He shrugs. “I can multitask.”

Beth rolls her eyes and turns her face to the side as if she were actually annoyed with him. He gently touches her cheekbone, just below the cut.

“It hurt?” He asks, his voice low, barely above a whisper. He presses a light kiss to her bandage. When he turns her face back toward his, her breath catches in her throat. His lips are hovering just above her own, but he doesn’t move to kiss her. He simply stares at her, his deep brown eyes half-closed.

Beth leans forward, wrapping her arms around his neck and closing the gap between them. He kisses her back immediately, lightly at first, then rougher as he grabs the back of her head, his fingers twisting in her hair. She can taste the lingering tartness of the clementine on his tongue when he licks into her mouth.

She barely registers the clattering of ice on concrete as he drops the bag to the floor, but jumps back, breaking the kiss when his cold, wet hand comes down on her thigh. He smiles, giving her a playful squeeze before yanking her back to him.

He’s pressing so hard against her, that she’s slid off the counter and into the sink. The faucet is digging into her spine, but she hardly cares. All she can focus on the feel of him—his mouth on hers, his hand in her hair, and his hard length pressing into her. She raises her hips and wraps her legs around his waist, pulling herself out of the sink to grind against him. 

He groans into her mouth. 

They kiss for a long time, or maybe not that long at all, she really can’t tell. She’s too dizzy—her head swimming with her desire for him.

A loud, playful shriek from outside startles her out of her haze and she suddenly remembers that they are at their children’s soccer tournament—their children, who they’ve left unsupervised (by them at least) in the park for who knows how long. She breaks their kiss, ready to say something about getting back out there, but he’s undeterred, quickly moving from her mouth to her throat.

She immediately loses her train of thought.

How can she think clearly when he’s sucking a hickey into her neck, just below her right ear. 

His hands are everywhere—combing through her hair, cupping her breasts, squeezing her ass. Her whole body is on fire, burning with the heat of his touch. Her hands are on him too, both desperately clutching at his back as if she’ll fall if she doesn’t hold on. 

“Wanna see that basic bitch tatt, mama,” he mutters as he pops open the button on her shorts and yanks down the zipper. She shakes her head, grabbing his wrist, and trying to remember exactly why she was stopping him. 

“We are not having sex in this bathroom.” She’s unconvinced by her own words. Her shaky voice sounds far away, faint in her own ears as if someone else is speaking across the room. 

“Thoughtchu were into that.” His voice is gravelly, almost hoarse, in her ear. He kisses her, slipping his tongue into her mouth before she can deny it. 

She doesn’t stop him again when he slips his still icy hand into her underwear, his fingers brushing lightly against her clit. He rubs lazy circles around it, unable to go any further with the way she’s sitting half in the sink. He tries to coax her up, to make more room for his hand, but she stays put, wanting to deny him if only for a moment. 

“Remember fuckin’ you in a bar bathroom, bendin’ you over that sink.” He pulls back to look at her, his lips pink and swollen and his pupils blown wide. She wonders what she looks like to him—if her lips are just as well kissed and if her eyes are just as dark with desire.

The way he’s sliding his fingers against her already has her trembling. She grinds herself against his hand, trying to get off without giving him the satisfaction of feeling her cumming on his fingers. He gets off on it, she knows, the feeling her clenching around him. She feels powerful denying him what he wants, while still getting what she wants.

This time though, it’s not enough just to grind on him. She can’t quite get there like this. 

“You remember that too, yeah?” he asks, eyes locked on hers. She nods slightly, unable to stop herself from lifting her hips enough to let him press two fingers into her. He pushes in deep, she can feel the cool metal of his ring just inside her. The angle is a bit awkward, painful almost, but the stretch of his fingers feels so good she can barely breathe. 

He still talking, not breaking eye contact, as he pushes in and out, his thumb rubbing circles against her clit. “Remember how we looked in that dirty mirror. You liked watchin’ me fuck you.” She shudders, struggling to keep her eyes open, as pressure builds low in her stomach. “Gotchu hot, didn’t it. Remember how you sounded when I was in you.” 

She moans, high pitched and needy.

“Yeah, just like that baby. Remember how you were moanin’ and clingin’ to me when you were cummin’ on my—”

The door flies open, smacking against the wall with a loud thwack.

Rio jerks his hand back, managing (somehow) not to get caught on her jeans. He turns fully toward the door, rolling his shoulders, and blocking her from view. She’s grateful she’s mostly hidden from whoever is standing in the doorway. Her face burns with embarrassment—ashamed at having been caught fooling around like a horny teenager.

Gathering herself, she peeks over his shoulder, careful not to expose her entire face in case it’s someone she knows. If it’s any of the other moms, she thinks she’ll just have to move right out of the country. They wouldn’t be the first parents caught hooking up at a game, not by a long shot, but being caught with her legs wrapped around a man who is definitely not her husband is a different story. She can already hear the gossip—they’d make Dean out to be the victim—they'd talk about how _she_ ruined their marriage with _her_ indiscretion. 

Her stomach lurches at the thought.

She lets out a shaky breath—relieved she’s never seen this tween boy wearing a purple and white striped jersey standing in the doorway before. He sheepishly rubs the back of his head, mumbling an apology.

“Your mama never teach you to knock?” She can feel the tension in Rio’s shoulders beneath her hands, annoyance radiating off him in waves. She imagines his face, knowing that he’s likely glowering at this poor kid. She giggles in spite of herself, pressing her face into his back to muffle the sound.

“Uh, the door was unlocked.” The boy points out before darting off and yanking the door closed behind him. 

Beth laughs aloud, “How many kids are you going to scare today?”

Rio turns back to her, his lips pursed as if he sees absolutely nothing funny about the situation. She holds his annoyed gaze for a moment, still smiling in amusement, before glancing down at her watch.

_11:25 a.m._

“Well,” she says, looking back up at him, “We should probably get back out there. The next game starts in five.”

“You don’t wanna finish what we started?” he asks even though he’s already doing up her zipper for her.

“I never said that,” she replies, breath catching, as he buttons her shorts closed. “Just not right now.”

“I’ll drop by later, yeah?” He steps back, leaving just enough space for her to drop down from the counter.

“Yeah.” She looks up at him conspiratorially, knowing she’ll be riding him in the back seat of the G-Wagon in just a few hours, just like she’s done so many nights before. He licks his lips, his dark eyes shining as if he knows exactly what she’s thinking about.

He touches her bruised cheek again, careful not to press too hard, before tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. He studies her face for a long moment before removing his hat and placing it haphazardly on her head. 

“Wear it tonight,” he grins, “when you’re ridin’ me.”

With that Rio turns and leaves—giving Beth a moment alone to sort herself out. She pulls her hair into a ponytail then threads it through the opening in his hat. 

Her chest aches as she looks at herself in the mirror. She’s never worn anything of his before—it’s just not something that they do—the gesture too affectionate for what they are, too affectionate for a relationship built on hatred. But still, he’d given it to her and she’d accepted it and for just a moment, she lets herself revel in it.

\--- 

She settles back on her bench just as the second game starts. The kids quickly reform their clump and she’s happy to see Jane right in the thick of it even if she is kicking the other players instead of the ball. 

The sun beats down on her, even hotter now as it approaches its peak in the sky. She adjusts Rio’s hat, grateful for the shade on her face. She scans the clusters of parents, looking for him. He’s easy to find—standing out from the group of sweaty, red-faced dads in khaki shorts. As if he can feel her eyes on her, he turns his gaze from the game. 

They lock eyes from across the field. The promise of later stretching between them.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr:  
> @femalegothic  
> @bethsuglywigs


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